


Odds and Ends

by ishmael05



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishmael05/pseuds/ishmael05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian has a hard time settling into life at Basic Training</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deep Private Pain of Ian Gallagher

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a Gallavich fic! This is the first chapter and I will post more if anyone is interested. Please let me know what you think and whether it's worth carrying on.

     Chapter 1: The Deep Private Pain of Ian Gallagher

 

      Mickey swaggered in like he owned the fucking place. Ian looked up and knew immediately what he was here for.  
      “You got any slim jims in this shit hole?” Mickey asked nonchalantly.  
      Ian gave a quick glance around the store, stood up, and walked around the counter to the door, locking it behind the last customer as she walked out. He turned.  
      “Yea, down in the back room.” Ian replied, equally casual, as he passed Mickey, heading to the back of the store. He didn’t have to check behind him, he knew Mickey was following. Ian could almost see clearly in his mind the devious look on the boys face as he began twirling off his scarf eagerly trailing close behind.  
      The encounter was quick and intense. No more words were spoken between the two. The dirty business was carried out with cool efficiency even as it was mingled with lust and longing. Their mutual need satisfied the boys hurriedly re-dressed themselves and made vague attempts to lessen the look of ‘I just had sex’ that hung around both their bodies like an aura.  
      Mickey was out of the back room first. He seemed to have forgotten that Ian was even there. Ian rushed out to get ahead of him, unlocked the front door, and opened it as Mickey swept out like a whirlwind. Ian stepped out of the store just behind him. Rather than leaving immediately, Mickey stood for a moment in the street, fixing the scarf around his neck.  
      Ian took this moment to break the silence between them. “So I guess this was like a booty call, huh?” He asked through an all too innocent smirk.  
      Mickey kept his eyes ahead of him, not looking at Ian, playing it cool. “Whatever. See ya.”  
      And with that he was gone. Out into the street the boy went, his previous swagger which had briefly disappeared now returned. Ian watched him closely.  
      The redhead’s mind was on fire. The experience had come and gone so fast he barely had time to process what happened as it was happening. He took the time now. It was only the second time the two had been together. The first had seemed like a one-off. A spur of the moment explosion of physical need. Now, however, Ian couldn’t help feeling that something more had begun. This encounter had not been random. Mickey had come to the Kash and Grab in the middle of the day, with a clear purpose in mind. That changed things, caused Ian to reevaluate the situation. As he watched Mickey get farther from him, eventually rounding a corner and going out of sight, Ian examined the emotions rushing through his system.  
      He felt a strange twist in his stomach, like a part of him had reacted physically to Mickey’s presence, had contorted itself into an uncomfortable and slightly nauseating position. Ian could not, for the life of him, put a name to that feeling. All he knew is that it was there, and it meant something, and it didn’t go away even after he had returned to his post. He sat at the registry, his tasks for the day forgotten, staring up at the ceiling. Slowly he drifted deeper into his own mind, looking for answers, replaying the fresh memory of the back room as well as the stale one of Mickey’s bedroom. As he watched those events like a film in his head he tried to analyze every motion Mickey had made, every subtle change in his expression, every word he had said and how he had said it. Ian tried to piece all these things together, tried to fit them into a narrative that made sense, that could explain the feeling in his stomach and maybe give him some insight into how to proceed.  
      His deep thinking was interrupted by the out-of-place cry of some brass instrument. The noise seemed to come from everywhere at once and the whole store began to shake and groan. Darkness took Ian.

* * *

  
      Ian gasped desperately. He shot up in his bed and his head struck something solid above him with a loud metallic ‘CLANG!!’ The shrill cry of the brass instrument continued to ring in his ears and the combination of having been violently pulled out of a deep sleep and the self-inflicted blow he had just received, prevented him from recognizing the sound. For several moments he just sat there, confused.  
      The realization of what the noise was and what it meant struck him like a bolt of lightning, and with it the memory of all that had happened to get him from that day at the Kash and Grab to where he was now, came flooding in. The weight of it forced another sharp intake of breath.  
      The shooting, juvie, “take your hand off the glass”, the baseball field, Frank, “your nothing but a warm mouth to me”, but he came back, Angie Zago, jealousy, “oh that’s the guy you’ve been seeing”, the kiss, the sleepover, Terry, the Russian whore, the pregnancy, the beat down, “feel better now”, the wedding day, the decision, the house, “Don’t…just”, the sound a heart makes when it shatters, the long bus ride out of Chicago, out of Illinois. All those moments, memories, flashed in front of Ian’s eyes in a confused and rapid series of images, and sounds, and emotions. It was like someone had taken all the pain of the last three years, pressed it into a compact pellet, and shot it right into his brain. It was enough to bring the tears and heaving sobs that had once been a nightly routine.  
      But he could not give himself that release now. Ian was not in the Southside anymore. Fort Leonard Wood, St. Robert, Missouri. The place he had run away to. It was not a place he could cry in. Lip was not here, Fee was not here. No one who understood was here.  
      Ian opened his eyes and began to reorient himself. The morning bugle still rang out, the bang on the top of his head still throbbed. These things helped to ground Ian, to bring him out of his mind and back into reality.  
      It was then he realized that the boy in the top bunk above him had clambered out of his bed and onto the cold concrete ground of the barracks and was now staring down at him like he was an alien. Ian gave him a look that said “Got a problem asswipe?”  
      The boy just smirked, unimpressed, “You hit your head?”  
      Ian hated stupid questions, “Take a wild goddamn guess.”  
      This only made the boy’s smirk grow deeper and more self-satisfied, “Who’s Mickey?”  
      “What?” Ian spat, trying to hide his panic.  
      “I said who the fuck is Mickey? You keep saying that name in your sleep, like it’s a goddamn prayer or something.” The boy could see the effect that his words were having on Ian, that he had touched on something deep.  
      Ian knew what the next line would be no matter what he said next. This conversation was so fucking predictable it made him want to puke. So instead of letting the inevitable “Is he your boyfriend or something” march its way out of the shit for brains standing before him, with a look on his face like he thought he was a fucking genius for thinking what Ian knew was rolling around behind that Neolithic forehead, Ian got up without a word and decked him right between the eyes. The boy toppled backward like a felled oak tree. The back of his head hit the ground hard, and his eyes rolled back.  
 

* * *

  
      Ian took the brief moment before the other boys in the barracks realized what had just happened, to reflect on his first week at basic training.  
      He had found pretty quickly that most of the other boys in his unit were pretty pathetically soft. Sure they were fit, and they talked tough, and some of them looked down right mean at first. But after the first few days Ian had discovered that almost to the man they were all from one small town or another, mostly from the south, with happy families, parents who weren’t drug addicts, neighborhoods that didn’t carry the constant threat of a mugging. Ian had grown up in the Southside. Ian had learned how to survive that harsh world since infancy. Ian had learned how to handle a knife before he had learned how to ride a bike. Ian knew how to read people, how to see, just from the way they moved, whether they were going to jump him or walk by him. Ian was leagues ahead of any of the other boys here.  
      That kind of difference, the fact that no one even came close, that kind of thing only breads resentment. So Ian had not tried to make any friends since he’d been at Fort Wood, in fact the thought of doing so hadn’t been one that he had even really considered. And the others learned in the first days to give him a wide berth. Especially after what had gone down in the mess hall.  
      It had happened during lunch on the second day. Ian had gotten his plate and gone off to sit by himself in a far corner. This act, which clearly signaled that he wanted to be left alone, somehow failed to perturb the blond haired, blue eyed, lean-bodied boy that came up and sat across from him. If Ian had been in a different head-space he might have thought the kid was actually pretty good looking. However, as it had only been a handful of days since he had walked, broken, from the Milkovich house, that kind of thing didn’t even register.  
      The boy eyed him cautiously. After a brief moment he stuck his hand out, a little too enthusiastically, knocking over Ian’s water bottle.  
      “Shit, sorry man!” the boy said through bright red cheeks, clearly fuming at his own clumsiness.  
      “Forget it.” Ian waved him off, picking the bottle up, opening it, and taking a big swig. He wasn’t actually all that thirsty; it was just something to do to avoid having to talk.  
      “Well anyway, my names Jack.” The boy delivered flatly, thankfully not attempting another handshake.  
      Ian sighed mentally. He was now being drawn into something he had hoped to avoid at all costs. But he knew he couldn’t just sit there and not say anything. He hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone but he wasn’t going to be an asshole.  
      “I’m Philip.” And then he added before he could stop himself, “People call me Lip.”  
      The boy, Jack, clearly seemed to take that as a sign that they were buddies now. Ian didn’t know where he came from, but it must have been an easy going place because this kid seemed to give away so much so easily. Ian actually felt kinda bad for the guy considering what happened next. He probably was really nice. He probably genuinely wanted to make a friend, get to know Ian a little. And hey who the fuck knows maybe he was even gay and wanted to test the waters. None of that mattered though.  
      In an attempt to be friendly poor Jack wandered unwittingly into the den of a sleeping and mentally unbalanced guerilla, and woke it the fuck up.  
      “Yea I bet they call you that,” he grinned, looking pretty pleased with himself, “More like firecrotch.”  
      For a moment Ian just stared. The thoughts running through his head were literally crazy. Ian knew that. But just for that moment he believed them anyway. It seemed to him like somehow this fucking kid knew. He knew and he was making fun of the deep private pain of Ian Gallagher. Jack’s grin contorted weirdly till it looked like a mocking smirk. His face suddenly looked ugly and mean. For a moment Ian just stared. Then he blacked out.  
 

* * *

  
      When he came to Ian had to quickly piece together what had happened in the few seconds of unconscious that had taken him. Jack lay sprawled out on the floor of the canteen, blood pouring from his nose, a look of confusion and panic in his eyes. Ian stood over him, his fists clenched hard into pure white balls of rage. Neither of his hands hurt though, so he knew he hadn’t punched the kid. Suddenly he began to notice a sharp pain on his forehead. Ian almost laughed out loud when he realized what he must have done. He must have somehow launched himself across the table and rammed right into Jack’s nose with his forehead. Ian had no idea how he had done that. But the look on Jack’s face and the way the other boys in the room were looking at him only confirmed that that is what had happened.  
      “What the fuck man?” Jack yelled, obviously trying his hardest not to cry from the pain. From the looks of it, his nose was probably broken.  
      Ian said nothing. Ian had nothing to say. He just turned and walked out. He could feel the eyes of every person in the room following him out, burning into the back of his skull.  
      He went straight back to the barracks he had been assigned to, flopped into the lower bunk that was his, and waited for someone to come get him.  
      He couldn’t have been there more than three minutes before a staff member broke noisily in.  
      “Philip Gallagher!” he barked sharply  
      Ian stood up briskly, took a few steps toward the man, saluted perfectly, and barked back “Sir!”  
      “I have orders to take you to Sergeant Finley!”  
      With that he turned on the spot and started in quick step, out of the barracks, across the marching square and toward the big red brick building on the west side of the Fort, with Ian following close behind.  
 

* * *

  
     Ian had met Sergeant Finley the day they had arrived at Fort Wood. He had given the new arrivals the classic boot camp run down. Insults and orders and descriptions of what to expect from basic training, flew out of his mouth like bullets from a tommy. Ian had expected that though. It was just like the movies.  
      After that initial exposure the arrivals were shown their quarters, taken on a five mile run, and given a briefing for the week. Ian had only half been there the whole time. His brain filtered out all the unimportant items and kept only what was essential. He had not held on to anything concerning disciplinary actions for starting fights.  
      So as he stood outside Finley’s office he feared he may have royally fucked himself over. What would happen if they sent him home? He was supposed to be laying low; after all he was using Lip’s name and identity. Now he had brought himself under the eye of the people in charge. How long before they take a closer look at that goddamn driver’s license? Probably not long now that everyone in the canteen saw him throw his entire body into another guy’s nose for no apparent reason.  
      His frantic worrying was interrupted as the door in front of him swung open and Finley stepped out. Ian saluted. He tried to read the expression on Finley’s face, but it was impossible. It could have been amusement just as easily as it could have been murder.  
      Finley moved aside from the doorway “At ease.” He grumbled and gestured for Ian to step inside and have a seat.  
      Ian broke his salute, walked in and sat. Finley followed, moving stiffly through the room until he was behind his desk. He remained standing so that Ian had to talk to him with his head raised. Finley was a tall man, and broad. His hair was both grey and black and cut in sharp military fashion. His face was angular, blocky even. His arms were covered in a thick coat of white hair. His eyes were fierce and brown and they stared, unwavering, right into Ian’s. Ian held his gaze. For a few moments they just stared at each other.  
      “You salute good Gallagher,” Finley growled breaking the silence “you ROTC?”  
      “Sir, yes, sir.” Ian shot back.  
      “Chicago?”  
      “Yes, sir.”  
      “Guess you ain’t too good at making friends, huh?”  
      “Sir, I guess not sir.”  
      “The fuck he say to you?”  
      “Sir, I’d rather not say, sir.”  
      Finley’s eyebrows rose slightly at that. He looked slightly confused, like he wasn’t used to kids not immediately answering his questions fully. After a moment, though, he seemed to decide not to press Ian on that one.  
      He shrugged, “Well, fuck if I care. We always have a fight or two the first few days, but never anything like this. Must have been pretty bad the way you jumped at him.”  
      “Sir.”  
      Finley sighed and sat in his chair, “Look kid, I get that its tough here. Dealing with new shit for tits strangers that don’t know you from Adam, but we got rules here. Shit like this, it don’t sit right with me. All you tiny pink fuckers are supposed to be bonding or at least putting up with each other. Your goanna have a hard time convincing the other boys you ain’t a bloodthirsty maniac after that goddamn stunt.”  
      Ian just sat there, not sure what to say, or where this conversation was going.  
      Finley, realizing Ian wasn’t going to say anything, continued, “I should kick your ass the fuck out of here. I don’t know whether this kid deserved a broken nose or whether you’re just a punk who likes hurting things. I don’t give punks guns. Punks with guns makes me very fucking uncomfortable. So you got one more shot. Show me you’re not a punk and you get a gun. Deal?”  
      As he said that last word, Finley rose up out of his seat, clearly expecting Ian to do the same. Ian obliged.  
      “Deal. Sir.” Ian said quickly, relieved that nothing worse had happened.  
      Finley held out his hand and Ian took it. One quick up down motion and Ian saluted, turned on his heel, opened the door, and walked out of the office.  
 

* * *

  
      Ian stood in his barracks, the bugle’s shrill cry still ripping through the air, peering over the kid he had just knocked out, whose name he couldn’t even remember, and thought to himself, “Well I guess I’m a fucking punk then.”


	2. Chapter 2: Mickey and the Mick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey tries to distract himself from all the shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, was without internet access for a while. Let me know if you like it, comments and kudos very much appreciated.

* * *

     Mickey Milkovich sat in solitude hating himself, hating his father, and hating the world. In the darkness of his bedroom he allowed this hate to consume him, to fill him up, to drive out the pain. He had not moved from his room since Ian had left. Mandy had tried to talk to him a few times but he had just ignored her until she left. Svetlana had not been back to the house in the two days Mickey had been lying there. He knew what she was doing out there, and it only brought the words Ian had once spoken back to him: “…you’re gonna marry someone who screws guys for a living…”  
      And now Ian was gone. That was all he could think. They had been separated before, during those times when he had been in juvie, but this was different. Mickey had fucked up, he knew that. He had taken the only good thing in his life and destroyed it, even as he was trying to save it. All his hardness, all his strength, had counted for nothing. In the end he had allowed the fear of his father to force his hand. That fear had made him beat Ian. Fuck. The memory of it made him sick and he knew that when it came down to it, when it really mattered, he was a coward.  
      Outside his bedroom Mickey could hear people come and go, and he marveled that life could be carrying on, outside the room that had become the entirety of his world; as if nothing had changed. The longer he lay alone with his thoughts the deeper into his suffering he fell.  
      And finally it occurred to him, on the morning of the third day, that if he did not get up and get out and do something he was going to die, alone in his room.  
      With this realization Mickey’s survival instincts kicked in and he rose from his bed and shuffled over to the bathroom. He turned the shower on at the hottest setting, stripped down to nothing, stepped in, and allowed the searing water to wash over him. Standing there, steam rising around him, Mickey allowed the painful heat to ground him, to help him think.  
      The first thought that popped into his mind was the name Tommy the Mick. When Mickey had first dropped out of high school, years ago, he had dealt for Tommy on the playgrounds of the Southside, getting that middle school market. Mickey thought now that those dealing years had been a better time, a simpler time, a time before all this shit had gone down.  
      It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something. Go back to that time, he thought, deal for Tommy again. So Mickey turned off the shower, found some less dirty clothes, and started rooting around his bedroom for his phone. He found it under a pile of clothes and sat back down on his bed.  
      *12 Missed calls**4 Unread messages*  
      Mickey scrolled quickly through the things he had missed; not that he cared all that much, he just hated that the fucking flag on the phone’s display didn’t go away until he had looked through all the calls and messages. They were all from Lip Gallagher (in his phone as Fuck Twat)  
      Nov. 25th 6:30 pm (the day Ian had left): “Hey, do u know where Ian is?”  
      Nov. 26th 10:17 am: “Did u fucking know he was planning this shit?”  
      Nov. 26th 12:49 pm: “What the fuck did u do to him u piece of shit”  
      Nov. 26th 5:11 pm: “Fucking answer me u cunt”  
      Mickey glanced at the top of the screen to see the current date. It was Nov. 27th. He thought about writing a long, threatening, Milkovich style reply but settled for a simple “Fuck off” before finding Fuck Twat in his contacts and blocking the number.  
      That business out of the way he found Tommy’s number and hit call. The phone rang for what felt like several minutes before someone finally picked up.  
      “Who the fuck is this?” Tommy’s voice sounded a lot harsher, and a lot more Irish, than Mickey remembered.  
      “Yo, it’s me Mickey, I used to run dope for you a few years back.” Mickey tried to make himself sound less nervous than he was.  
      There was a slight pause.  
      “Oh yea!” Tommy said in realization, “Little Runt. To what do I owe the honor?”  
      Mickey cringed slightly at the nickname he had forgotten once belonged to him. “I got myself in some shit man, need to make some good money. Wonderin’ if you needed anyone?”  
      “Hehe, thought it might be about a job. Always a pleasure to have a Milkovich over. Why don’t you come to my place and we’ll see about it. You remember where that is right?”  
      “Aight, yea I remember, be there in twenty.”  
      Mickey hung up the phone, grabbed his backpack, and flew out of his room. He was afraid that Mandy would be in the living room, but thankfully it was empty. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of bread out of the cupboard. Not wanting to risk running in to anyone he ate the bread in a few bites and ran out of the house.

     The streets of Mickey’s neighborhood seemed strangely empty as Mickey made his way to Tommy’s house. The route was nostalgic; he had walked it thousands of times back in those dealing days. It was cold and the sky was sheet white with clouds. Mickey tried to keep his mind as blank as possible, focusing intently on each forward step.  
      After fifteen minutes of trudging Mickey rounded a corner, and passed through the wire gate of a squashed, almost diagonal looking, town house. The building hadn’t changed much since Mickey had last been there. The tiny garden was a little more overgrown and wild than he remembered. Mickey walked up the stone steps and pounded three times on the door.  
      It took a few minutes but eventually the door swung open and Tommy stood there eyeing Mickey up. Tommy was a tall and thin man, with arms that hung down below his waist and looked unnaturally long. His nose was long and sharp, and his brow was furrowed slightly giving him a constant look of confusion. His hair was sleek black. All in all he was a weird looking fucker.  
      “Well, well, well,” cooed Tommy, “If it isn’t a little runt come home to roost, eh?” He swayed slightly as he spoke, and ended with a loud guffaw.  
      “Yea, yea, can we skip all this shit please, and just get me some work?” Mickey was not interested in reminiscing, or spending one second more than necessary with Tommy.  
      “Right you are, sir” Tommy sprang into action giving a mock salute and ushering Mickey into the house.  
      Tommy led him into one of the rooms off of the long main hallway. Mickey sat on the couch opposite the wicker chair that Tommy collapsed into. He sat there staring at Tommy as the man rolled his head around a few times looking like he was trying to physically move several thoughts together in order to form a complete sentence.  
      “Always a pleasure to have a Milkovich over.” Tommy repeated. Mickey was silent, waiting for the business to start. “You know your father is a real fucking cunt.” Apparently some amount of conversation was going to be required until Mickey got what he wanted so he just let Tommy continue. “I mean I’ve met some cunts in my time, some real gigantic pricks, from all over the world, mind you. But your father,” Tommy shook his head vigorously “is the cuntiest, prickiest, fuck me sideways wanker that I have ever encountered in my entire god forsaken life.”  
      “You think I don’t know that?” Mickey interjected, “I live with the fucker.”  
      Tommy seemed to think this was hilarious and let out a loud coughing sound that Mickey supposed was a laugh.  
      “Yes, I suppose that would do it, huh?”  
      “Listen, Tommy, as much as I would love to trash on my dad all day, I really need some work, so if you haven’t got anything for me I’m just gonna head out, kay?”  
      “Hold your horses, hold your horses!” Tommy stood up from his chair, walked around to a chest of drawers in the corner of the room and pulled out a large bag. Its contents were obscured until Tommy threw it onto the coffee table in front of Mickey.  
      “Two ounces of the finest green. You’ll do twenty a g, 950 comes back to me, anything over you keep for yourself.”  
      Mickey tried to contain his surprise, “No one’s gonna pay twenty a g in Southside, Tommy, you know that.”  
      “So go uptown.” Tommy replied casually.  
      Mickey realized then that Tommy was offering a tainted job. To deal in the Southside was risky enough, but for a Southside boy to deal uptown, you might as well turn yourself in. It would be impossible for Mickey not to look out of place there, he reeked of Southside, and everyone uptown would smell him a mile away and wonder what the hell he was doing there. Besides that Mickey had no idea where to even start, where people went for bud, or any of the practical experience he had dealing in the Southside. None of his street smarts would apply. He would be flying blind in a hostile environment.  
      The more he thought about it, the more Mickey wanted to just fucking do it, accept the challenge, accept the risk, even though it was defiantly going to go badly, even though it would only mean a few hundred dollars at the most if he pulled it off. This wasn’t about the money, this was about distraction.  
      It only took a few seconds for Mickey to come to his decision. “Aight, no problem.” Mickey was nothing if he was not a good actor, and the confidence in his voice sounded as genuine as if he had agreed to a walk in the park.  
      Tommy looked taken aback for a split second, “Good, then there is an understanding between us.” He looked straight into Mickey’s eyes and Mickey held his stare.  
      Mickey stood, stretched out his hand and shook Tommy’s, “Like I said, no problem”  
      In the Southside this was as good as an airtight legal contract. Mickey was in now, and there was no turning back. He picked the bag up from the table and shoved it into his back pack.  
      Tommy led him out of the room to the front door. He stood there for a moment looking at Mickey.  
      “Godspeed, you crazy fucking Milkovich.”  
      “Don’t need no god, you mad catholic mick.”  
      And with that Mickey was out the door, headed home to bag the bud, then to the L to take the train uptown.


End file.
